


Locked in Love

by Michelle_A_Emerlind



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Explicit French :D, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, M/M, Mention/Brief Scene of Laurens/Washington, Modern Setting, Top Jefferson, bottom hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6546361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/pseuds/Michelle_A_Emerlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lafayette is tired of Hamilton and Jefferson acting like children, so he locks them up in a room together until they solve their differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked in Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamiltrashed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/gifts).



> Otherwise titled: “Oui, Oui, Motherfucker.” I'm kind of obsessed with Lafayette at the moment. This is also chock full of historical inaccuracies and general craziness. My first Hamilton fic, so I hope you like! You can also blame all of this on [sourwolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/s0urw0lf/pseuds/s0urw0lf). Damn her for being so awesome.

Lafayette opens the door to the rather grand and overly-magnificent loft apartment he shares with Mulligan and drapes his coat on the hanger with little finesse before breezing into the kitchen to find his longterm partner. He immediately notices three things in quick succession--1) The smell of cookies permeates the air and there are two trays already on the stove, 2) Hercules’ brow is furrowed up so hard that Lafayette is fairly certain that butterflies could make dens in the wrinkles and 3) he’s sewing a pair of pants with fierce vengeance--shoving the needle in and ripping it out, over and over and over to no avail.

Lafayette sighs heavily and slumps himself down in the chair besides Mulligan. “You’re stress sewing.”

Mulligan grunts.

“And stress baking,” Lafayette adds.

Another grunt.

“Can I--”

“Fuck you.”

Lafayette raises an eyebrow. “...and why are we so pissy?”

Mulligan furrows his brow up even more in knitted chaos and shoves his phone in Lafayette’s direction. Lafayette takes it and presses power, immediately taking in the text in front of him from Laurens that, in addition to a bunch of angry and crying emojis reads, “I’m fucking DONE with him. We’re over and I mean it this time, Herc. FUCK Alex FUCKING Hamilton. Washington sucks dick better anyway.”

Lafayette’s second eyebrow meets his first one in his hairline. “Well, I’ll be a buffalo’s balls. It finally happened. He finally grew a pair and left him.”

In a huff, Mulligan throws down his pants that are really more tattered fabric now than actual clothing. “He’s going to be _insufferable_ now. Oh, god. Lafayette. _What the fuck are we going to do about Hamilton?_ ”

Lafayette frowns himself and stares at the phone and the series of “ >:( >:( >:( “ that greets his eyes. And then a plan forms in the back of his mind, an evil, dastardly, _terrible_ plan. But after all, he managed to defeat the British forces, didn’t he? Surely he can do this. Surely he can go to

war against the most stubborn cause he has ever faced. Surely, _surely_ he can manage to find Hamilton a man that can actually _take_ him.

“Oh, mon coeur,” he tells Mulligan, reaching over and squeezing the man’s fingers in his own. “Don’t worry. We’re going to fix him. You and I?” He chuckles. “We’re going to find Hamilton some cock.”

***

Hamilton is standing large and in charge over the conference table and is just in the middle of a speech in regards to how Jefferson’s head is shoved so far up his own ass he needs medical attention when his phone goes off. At first, he ignores it. He’s just getting to the _good_ part, the part about Jefferson’s stupid hair, and nevermind that the rest of the table is looking utterly bored having already listened to a good solid twenty minutes of the spewing that’s come out of his mouth, he’s going to goddamn _finish this_ and give Jefferson the burn of his life.

The only problem being that Jefferson is staring at his phone and doesn’t really look like he’s being burned so much as that he’s just getting the tiniest whiff of smoke from a neighbor’s barbecue that doesn't even really annoy him that much and that makes Hamilton even _more_ pissed, because he’s gonna bring the fire, goddamnit, but unfortunately Jefferson is rising in his seat, eyes still glued to his phone and dismissing himself from the meeting.

With his prey out of his grasp, Hamilton falls into silence and glares at the glass door and Jefferson’s retreating back, only now just noticing he was so into going on about Jefferson’s ancestry that little sprinkles of his hair have fallen undone around his face. “Are you finished, Alexander?” Washington asks, exasperatedly, and Hamilton, not for the first time, wonders if “babysitting” was in the job description for president.

But show no weakness, he tells himself, and raises his nose into the air. “Thank you, good sirs,” he closes with and stomps to the door, suddenly unsure of what the damn agenda on the table even _was_.

It takes him a good twenty minutes to realize that his phone is still flashing a text. When he pulls it out with a huff of frustration, his blood-pressure skyrockets as in rather telling French, Lafayette is going on and on about Jefferson’s damn Democratic-Republicans and about how apparently there’s a _rally_ and no one is talking any sense into them and Hamilton needs to get down there ASAP.

Well, fuck it, he will. He’s always up for a challenge, especially when it involves Jefferson’s cronies. And besides, Lafayette is one of his best friends and they work together _so_ well and he probably knows that after the Laurens debacle--because of course Lafayette _must_ know about the debacle--what Hamilton needs is a loud and rough space to shout about shitty little Virginia farmers and maybe throw a punch or two.

So Hamilton beelines it for the address Lafayette listed, putting the pedal down on his car and speeding through traffic despite the rust stains and general unpolishedness of the bucket. He arrives in no time and if he were better put together today, if he were paying _attention_ to anything other than how his blood needs to pound so he won’t think about how the man that he was sure was going to stick with him for the rest of his days got tired of his constant goings-on about _Thomas Jefferson_ this and _Thomas Jefferson_ that, he would notice that the building is rather _quiet_ for a rally. But he doesn’t notice. Because apparently he’s too distracted _trying_ to distract himself from the fact that he’ll die a lonely bachelor to notice that the room he enters is strangely empty. And that the door behind him is closing rather fast. And that there’s a shrieking from inside and a, “ _Don’t you fucking let it close, Alexander!_ ” before three things happen at once. Hamilton notices the shrieking as Jefferson’s shrieking, the door slams closed with a bang, and a tiny little French voice from outside is cackling and going, “Oui, oui, mon ange, I got them!”

Hamilton closes his eyes and takes a large breath. He tries to count to ten, but is distracted halfway through by Jefferson’s banging on the door and the impressive amount of French cussing that’s pouring out of his mouth. “You fucking little French fuck!” Jefferson is yelling, kicking the door. “Let me out of here or I’m going to burn your skivvies off of you.”

“Oh, no, no,” Lafayette says and his voice gets clearer as he steps up to the door. “Mulligan and I think the the two of you little tourtereaux are going to stay in there until you work this shit out. I, for one, am done with it, and you are making my poor petit caneton sew his little fingers off. _Non_. You are going to stay in there and decide if you are going to fuck or not.” And here Lafayette leans into the crack of the door and shouts. “ _And we all know you would like to!_ And really, there’s no reason to not since Laurens has found a man that will treat him well, hmm, Alexander?”

Jefferson turns to Hamilton in the low light with a frown. “You and Laurens broke it off?”

“OUI,” Lafayette says from the outside. “And I, because I am such a gracious host, have left you with everything you need. This is an old hotel, see? So there is a bed in the back for you and I have left you all provisions. Roses, music, french wine, _personal items_. No excuses! Two handsome men like you. This should be an easy decision. I mean, of course there are always improvements. Thomas, would it kill you to put back your hair? I think it would frame your face nicely, I mean you have such shape to your--”

“ _Lafayette,_ ” Hamilton hisses and his favorite meddling french friend huffs into silence. Hamilton spares a glance at Jefferson, finds him staring back in the--fuck, not just lowlight, _candle-fucking-light_ \--with bright, burning eyes and an expression that Hamilton finds strangely hard to read. His heartbeat speeds up, but not like he wanted it to when he thought this was a rally. No, his heart is more dangerous than that and Hamilton runs through his options lightning fast and finds that yelling at a frenchman is better any day than what he’s afraid he’s going to find in Jefferson’s expression. “LAFAYETTE,” he yells and starts banging. “MULLIGAN, GODDAMMIT, TALK TO YOUR BOYFRIEND.”

But the only sound there is from the other side now is the screeching of tires as a car pulls away and the sinking in Hamilton’s chest that tells him solidly that he is so utterly screwed.

They stand in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder, both staring at the door in abstract horror. They remain quiet for longer than Hamilton has ever heard silence, until Thomas, lightly, clears his throat. “Well, they’ll be back,” he says and turns around, braces himself against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting with his knees bent in front of him. Alexander thinks that the bed would be more comfortable, but on this, he and Thomas agree for once because he’s not setting fucking foot in the fucking bedroom.

He sits down on the other side of the door from Thomas and they both stare blankly at the wall for what feels like hours, but Alexander is sure must only be minutes. “I think we need to go to war with the French,” he says by way of conversation.

Thomas snorts. “Right now, I have half a mind to light every single one of them up in flames. Tourtereaux, my ass. What does he know?”

“I’m sure he’s just trying to help,” Alexander says, with a mind to defend his friend.

Thomas shakes his head. “Help what?”

“Me,” Alexander says with a sigh. “I mean, I’m guessing.”

“Hmm,” Thomas says and descends into silence again. Alexander watches out of the corner of his eye as he smooths the fabric on his knee over and over again. “You’re really done? You and Laurens?”

Hamilton's hackles rise and he glares over at Jefferson. He puts his hands up into his hair and releases the bind keeping it up before gathering it again for something to do. “None of your fucking business,” he growls, tying his hair up tight, all loose strands put away.

“Thought you were forever and shit,” Thomas keeps on anyway. “Isn’t that what he was going on about at the last office party? All googly-eyed and--”

“Things change.”

“...well, of course they do, Alex. I--”

“Don’t call me Alex.”

“Alexand--”

“Don’t call me Alexander.”

Thomas huffs. “We’ve known each other for--” Hamilton gathers breath to speak, but Thomas talks over him. “YEARS now. I can fucking call you Alex.”

“Okay, _Tom_ ,” he sneers.

“Don’t call me Tom.”

“Fucking bullshitter.”

“Don’t call me _Tom_ ,” Jefferson says with a glare across the door, “when you say it like _that_.”

Alexander shakes his head and stares off into the corner, away from Thomas. He mentally practices his french, going over and over what the perfect way to tell Lafayette off after this will be, the best words, the proper inflection. Because this is too much. After Laurens left him--and alright, he can admit now _rightfully_ so--he’s been a mess. And he doesn’t need this on top of the trainwreck he already is. Doesn’t need to be this close to Jefferson, alone. Doesn’t need to look at him under the flickering fire of the candles and stare at his stupid hair and his stupid eyes and his stupid _everything_ and wonder _what if_ like a child wishing on a star.

He’s been in love for years. God, does he wish it was with the right man.

He shakes his head at himself and turns back to glaring at his corner. Thoughts like this do not happen in the day, he reminds himself. They are only reserved for the dead of night when he wakes with heavy eyes and searching hands, where there are words on his lips he would never dare to say aloud and Lafayette is going to die for this one.

He’s just about gathered all the courage to tell Jefferson that they need to spend this time in separate rooms, when Thomas breaks the silence himself. But it’s not with what Hamilton had thought it would be--not a laugh or a sneer. Not a _look at you for being so pathetic and actually thinking you have a chance._ No, instead, it is a whispered release of breath, such a tiny phrase it may as well be a prayer. “I was jealous.”

Hamilton frowns. “Of me? Well, I think he’s shacked up with Washington good and tight but you can always try and--”

“Alex,” Thomas says and it turns the million words on Hamilton’s lips to dust.

More silence. Alexander hates it and tries to think of more things to say, more things to argue, but comes up quiet in the face of Jefferson’s eyes heavy on the back of his head. He sighs and turns, meets his gaze for just a moment before looking down.

“I was jealous of him,” Thomas continues. “When I first met you, fuck, I hated you. No, don’t get me wrong. I still do. You are a goddamn _annoying_ ass. But back then, it was different. Back then...I didn’t think you would be in my life forever. And…”

“You can stop talking about it,” Alexander says quickly. “They’ll be back soon. No need to drag it out and go on and on about how much of a dick I am and for another thing--”

“Shut up,” he says softly and it cuts Hamilton off louder than a yell. “Back then I was angry. And confused. And it took me a long, long time to get my head on straight, to understand just what I was feeling because it’s never felt like that before. And by the time I realized...the two of you were dating. And Laurens, the little shit, was always wearing that big smile. He was happy. And you were...less unhappy. And it wasn’t my place to interfere in your affairs.”

Hamilton snorts. “And it is _now_?”

“He’s gone,” Thomas says. “He’s gone and I...I missed my shot all those years ago. And have been paying for it ever since. So I can’t...I can’t throw it away now.”

Hamilton shakes his head again and stares not at Jefferson and not at the floor, but somewhere between like his eyes refuse to lift and find whatever emotion Thomas is showing him, but also refuse to lower and reject it, too. “You don’t want me,” he says and for all the words he is always toting, for all the speeches, for all the letters, for everything poured out of him so long with such vigor, it is these that are the hardest. “I...I’m a mess. I’m fucked over. And I...I thought Laurens was the one. I thought he…” _Gather yourself, Alexander_. “I thought he was the one that was going to put up with me. I thought for sure I had found it. He thought I was funny at first. He would listen to me, let me go on and on and on and...and then he left me. Because he, too, got tired of me. Everyone always gets tired of me, eventually. Might take awhile, but they do. And even though I surround myself with _people_ and _noise_...I’m always alone in the end, aren’t I? You and Burr, you’re right. I should just fucking shut up. But I can’t.”

Thomas pauses and then speaks. “I think of anyone, I would be the man that could stand to be around you forever.”

Alexander laughs, but it’s humorless. “Oh, and why do you think that? Poor Laurens. He did everything right. I can’t fault him for anything. It was _me_ that was the fuck-up. Me that ruined everything. And you, you obnoxious, impatient, _mean little man_. Why do you think you could be around me?”

Jefferson snorts. “Because I am?”

Hamilton raises his eyes and finds him looking away, back at the wall again. He blinks and frowns, tries to process through what Jefferson is saying.

“Look,” Thomas continues, “we’re with each other all the time, anyway. And...I don’t...hate it.”

What a lie, Alexander thinks, but then he frowns and begins to catalogue for himself the amount of time they are together. The office, all the time. Every meeting they are arguing, every email they are snipping, every birthday party they are fighting over the same cake slice. Hell, their desks are next to each other for christ’s sake. And more than that, Alexander starts numbering off how much time he spends in the office after hours with Jefferson there, how many times he calls him, the letters they write to each other, the damn text messages going and going so much that he’s embarrassed to admit that Thomas is at the top of his recent contacts more often than John ever was. And...John. How much time did he spend with him? A dinner here, a dinner there. A quick fuck when they could find time and when Alexander wasn’t at the office and even Lafayette, Mulligan--only once this month hanging out at the bar and even then, Thomas had walked in with James Madison and he had instantly started to berate him until he could care less who was at the table with them and...fuck. _Fuck_.

“You tell me goodnight,” Thomas says and then gives a bitter laugh. “I mean, mostly it’s ‘go to bed, asshole,’ but still. And I find that I can’t sleep until I get it. That I can’t breathe in the morning until my phone goes off with that stupid, _stupid_ ringtone you installed on it that I can’t get to go away like a damn virus and I...if this is my chance, Alexander, I’m taking it. Fuck that it’s goddamn Lafayette that’s the cause of it.”

“You don’t want me.”

“I _do_ ,” Thomas says. “Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. And this isn’t something that goes away. It’s not something that heals with time. I’ve been in love with you, Alex, for so long. And maybe that’s the stupidest thing either one of us has ever done, but Alexander--”

“Shut up, Thomas,” he whispers and then cuts him off when he tries to speak again. “Shut up because you already have me.”

It takes Thomas no time to rise to his feet and Alexander even less to stumble upwards, to close his eyes and shiver just as he’s touched, to feel his back hit the wall and know the strong muscles of Thomas’ chest, the scent of him heavy in the air, the pressure of his lips as they descend and then take him, pull him into something spinning wild and new. Thomas is surprisingly gentle, his hand on Alexander’s neck, his waist, his lips as they mold and move and lead both of them down a path frightening and crashing like the first gunshot of war.

Alexander melts for him, falls apart, even as he tries to hold back. But it’s impossible with the way that Thomas is holding him carefully, _reverently_ , like Alexander is his scripture of independence, the first words of a new man. Their breath is mingled as they kiss, lips sliding together and tongues just barely reaching out until Alexander opens his mouth, leans back against the wall and pulls Thomas in with two fingers hooked in his belt and a moan that is sinful even to his own ears.

And Thomas takes it, revels in the chance like he’s said he’s been waiting for, tilting Alexander’s head and coming in at an angle that makes Alexander cross-eyed behind closed eyelids. And then Thomas is pulling back, whispering his name against his lips and tugging his body backwards and backwards until Alexander realizes they’re walking and where they’re walking to and it’s thrilling, exciting, unbelieveable and he shivers in the truth of it, in the face of the fact that Thomas Jefferson has now pulled him through the doorway into the bedroom, has turned them, has laid him down, and is now sliding over him, locking into place and falling into him again, tongues rapid now, fast and firm like all the words Alexander has always wanted to say.

“Are you going to fuck me?” he asks, because he can’t help himself and Thomas chuckles into his mouth, so low and reverberating that it gets Alexander halfway there already.

“No,” Thomas whispers. “I’m going to make love to you.”

Alexander can’t help it. He snorts and then ends up laughing, but it’s kissed away on Thomas’ lips and he finds that he rather likes the idea, that he rather enjoys the sentiment that Thomas loves him, that he “--love you,” he hears himself say and repeats, “I love you” to Thomas’ mouth and Thomas grins against him, wide and free and rolls his body down in a mockery of what’s to come and it’s so deliciously sweet that Alexander moans loudly into the room and throws his head back, finds lips on his throat kissing and then nipping at the skin there.

“Want you naked,” Thomas speaks into his skin. “Want to put my mouth on every inch of you. I’ve been wanting to for months.” He groans. “Alex…”

Alexander chuckles. “You want me naked, you’re going to have to get off of me.”

Thomas gives him a mock frown, but does so, rolling to the side and going for his own pants. Alexander sits up, shrugs off his work jacket and tosses it in the corner along with his belt, his shoes, his socks. He gets to his pants and is working them down before Thomas gives him an impatient grunt. Alexander looks over to see Thomas already unclothed and ready, his abs tight and his strong thighs spread. Alexander swallows and his mouth goes dry at the sight, his hands itching to touch. Which is probably why he finishes throwing off his pants so fast--underwear and all--and finds himself straddling Thomas even though his shirt isn’t off yet.

Thomas grunts and his hands go immediately to Alexander’s hips. “Didn’t finish the job,” he informs him and Alexander lets a little quirk go to his mouth.

“Huh, guess I didn’t. Why don’t you do it?”

And so Thomas obliges, leans up and starts popping buttons, careful at first and then rougher as he goes until the last he’s practically ripping from their beds. He gives a full out grin once the shirt opens to Alexander’s chest and splays his hands on it, digs his fingers under the fabric and slowly slides it down until it falls off of Alexander’s shoulders to lie tangled at his elbows. “What a beautiful sight,” he whispers to him, his hands roaming over the skin, rolling over a nipple. Alexander gasps, his lips falling apart and Thomas smiles his joy. His hand rises, goes over chest to collarbone to throat, up to Alexander’s ear and then to the ponytail at the back of his head. He releases the binding holding it up, is gentle as he takes it apart, and Alexander’s hair comes cascading down the sides of his face. “Even better,” he smiles and then leans forward, kisses his jaw and then the corner of his mouth as his fingers slide into hair, his other arm coming up over Alexander’s back as their lips find each other.

They moan together and then Thomas flips them, rolls him over easy and settles his body on Alexander’s like a ship coming to harbor. He pulls him, rolls with him, kisses him and somehow in the mess of it one arm of Alexander’s shirt comes off him and then, with a violent shove to the floor the other one, until they’re naked, kissing, touching, rolling together and it’s glorious. It’s nothing like Laurens and Hamilton hates to admit that, hates that Laurens with his passionate sincerity, boyish smile, and grounded beliefs could never turn him on like Jefferson is doing now, could never reach inside of him and pull the strings of his soul like a puppetmaster with deft hands like Thomas’ deft hands are now touching him, fingers light as they hold his dick, stroke it and send Alexander reeling for the stars.

“T-thomas,” he groans, broken and desperate, but only just for a moment before Thomas swallows his words back into his mouth and keeps touching, keeps grinding, keeps _being_ on top of him. Alexander is so lost in it, he misses the bottle that Thomas must have found, the opening of it, all the tell-tale signs the lead up to now, to Thomas’ finger pressing against his entrance, asking for permission.

Alexander gasps and Thomas groans. “Gotta get ready if you want me to fuck you,” he growls out against Alexander’s lips and, in answer, Alexander just hooks one leg up over Thomas’ waist and gives a little grunt of permission. Thomas smiles and pushes his finger inside and Alexander has one second where his body tries to resist, but he relaxes himself, lets Thomas in both physically and metaphorically, exactly like Lafayette intended when he locked the doors to this place, but also--Hamilton can’t lie now--like he’s been wanting to do, like he’s known he’s been moving toward for months, for years now. And here Thomas is, too, opening himself up as well. Alexander can see it in his eyes as they shine, in the part of his mouth, the expression on his face that reads like a perfectly painted picture, full of depth and longing and emotion that Alexander can’t define, but knows like his own body, like blood and bones and all the things that make them here together, now, in this moment.

Thomas adds a second finger, stretches him open and Alexander lets his body go, lets his voice moan, lets his hips tick upwards and his cock strain for attention. Thomas gives a breathless laugh and then grins down at him, the smirk and cocky bastardly confidence seeping back in for a moment. “Desperate little thing, aren’t you?” he tells Hamilton and Hamilton’s body shivers in excitement, even as his mind rises to the challenge and spits back.

“Just waiting for you to stop taking your damn time,” he growls.

“Oh, really?” Jefferson teases and scissors his fingers in Hamilton’s ass, licking his lips when the loud, open moan pours out of Hamilton. “Sound like a whore to me.”

“Not a whore,” Hamilton clips and then he snaps up, grabs Thomas by the neck, fingers in his hair and drags him down so that they hold inches apart. “Whores are for everyone and I’m not for everyone. I’m just for you.”

Thomas takes in a sharp breath and stares down, eyes pouring into Hamilton and snagging there like catching thorns. “Bitch, then,” he whispers and Alexander laughs openly.

“Bitch, huh?” He smiles. “Bitch, fuck me.”

“What a prick,” Thomas mutters to himself, but he obliges, takes his fingers out and presses himself right up against Alexander, looking down at him and then kissing again, fervently, before pressing inside, breaching him to the gasp that falls out of Alexander’s mouth even as they kiss.

“Thomas,” he whines, fingers still in Thomas’ hair, body shivering for him as Thomas thrusts in slowly, inch by inch until he’s sitting firm in Alexander’s body. He lifts his other legs, wraps himself around Thomas body and angles himself when Thomas starts to thrust, rolls his hips with him to a rhythm they fall into like magic, like music on the summer wind, like the first ink stroke to a parchment, the first letter to a law.

He throws his head back and whimpers, unable to help himself and he hears, belatedly, his own voice as it keeps speaking, keeps casting out words to the air, words like _life_ , like _love_ , like _more_ , like _yes_ , like _Thomas_ , like _Thomas,_ like _Thomas._ And Thomas, he leans down, puts his mouth on Alexander’s throat, sucks his Adam’s apple, his hands occupied with collarbones, with the spread of his chest, his nipples, his stomach, until they reach their destination on his groin, one hand holding firm to his hip, the other touching him again--dragging up the underside to thumb the head.

“Fuck, you’re going to _kill me_ ,” Alexander whines and Thomas chuckles, lets his tongue roll over Alexander’s neck to his chin, a little growl when he bites down there.

“Tell me,” Thomas says in a breathy moan. “Tell me how I feel in you.”

“I fucking hate you,” Alexander says instead, but his shaking body, the roll of his hips, his cock leaking precome and the seeking of his mouth until he finds Thomas’ says different. Thomas lets him kiss, basks in it, the rhythm turning just the slightest bit harder, faster, to the set of their tongues dancing upon one another.

“How do I _feel_?” Thomas asks again, leans up slightly so that he can brace one elbow on the bed, his hand tangled and pulling at Alexander’s hair. He thrusts harder and Alexander cries out as his body is pushed another inch up.

“ _Fucking amazing_ ,” he whines exactly like Thomas wants him to.

Thomas chuckles and leans down to his ear, pulls almost all the way out and then slams in again. “My bitch,” he whispers and Alexander can feel Thomas’ smile on the curve of his earlobe, but he can’t find it in himself to argue this one, because he _is_. He’s owned so hard by this man, fucked so hard by him, made for him in ways that make Alexander finally believe in fate, finally believe that this time will work, that yeah, this is his one. And fuck the universe for making his perfect man Thomas fucking Jefferson.

“You feel like my destiny,” Thomas tells him like he’s reading his fucking mind and who the hell knows, maybe he is, the goddamn bastard.

Alexander, for his part, just moans again, his hands sliding over flesh, over Thomas’ side to his back. “God, just fuck me,” he moans and Thomas does, falls to it, slams in and goes hard and fast, fucks him so good he feels like a crescendo to a war cry, rising and rising and rising, ready to boil over and fall apart all at the same time. His back begins to bow, his groin begins to tighten with Thomas’ hand on him, his legs cling and his fingers begin to dig at skin now. But even aside from the pace of it, from the sound of their bodies coming together, the push that Thomas keeps giving him as he fucks him up on the bed, it’s also somehow...sentimental. Thomas’ nose in the crook of his neck, his breath fast and frantic and vulnerable, his hands as they cling, his body as it molds to Alexander’s and as it, too, keeps building.

And it’s that, that feeling warm in his heart that rivals the one warm in his gut, that causes the words to pour out of him, the strong and devotional “I love you” that snaps Thomas’ eyes up to his, simmering like the promise of nightfall and all the quiet things that Alexander has always craved. “I love you,” he says again and Thomas’ hand goes to his neck, curves against his flesh so sensual and sweet that Alexander gasps for it.

“I love you, too,” he whispers and kisses him, slow while his body is still going fast, emotional while they ride the physical together to the final wave and when Thomas comes, it’s hard and deep, his body pushing into Alexander’s with all the fire that’s been brewing between them, but it also speaks of other things. Speaks of a future that Alexander is just beginning to see, just beginning to whimper for.

He comes, too, a second later, his body responding to Thomas like it’s always known that this is where it belongs. He twitches, cries out, clings in a way he’ll be embarrassed for later and keeps kissing, keeps falling, keeps giving himself to the man above him--heart, body, and soul. And they stay like that, Thomas in his flesh and in his mouth, until the moment slows down to gentle kisses and Hamilton murmurs up at him, “This mean you’re going to sign my bill?”

Thomas looks down at him and then gives a quick, “HA! Are you serious? _No_. I still have sense left in my body.” He gathers breath to explain just why Hamilton's bill is so lacking, but he is cut off by a loud and high gasp-turned laugh and, “Merde! Mulligan, look at this! I told you it would work!”

Thomas lets out an undignified squeak and Alexander responds by trying to hide under Thomas’ body, which doesn’t actually work as Thomas pulls off of him and rolls away to hide his own self. Which means that Alexander is left flapping and squirming in the breeze to the joyful merriment of a french fuck with a grin as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. “No, no, pets!” he says with a laugh, “Don’t get up. I see you have reconciled. Perfect! Bien! Now, I’ll leave you two tourtereaux to it.” 

He turns on his heel and starts skipping away, laughing softly to Mulligan at his elbow. Jefferson throws his head over his shoulder and yells at his retreating back, “FUCK YOU, LAFAYETTE. WE ARE NOT GODDAMN TOURTEREAUX.”

“Ah!” Lafayette calls as he reaches the door and opens it, “but you are cute like one.”

***

Lafayette snaps at the bartender on duty to get his attention and rattles off the list, glancing ideally back at the table, “Two Red Stripe, one Heineken, and two Sam Adams.” He watches at Mulligan says something that causes the table to just burst into an uproar and then frowns as he sees Thomas walk through the door and make a line for their company. “Ah, fuck. Better make it three,” he says with an eyeroll.

“Three?”

“Three Sam Adams,” Lafayette says with an eyeroll and then takes the whole tray of drinks when he’s given them back to the table, depositing them all down for everyone to have. Thomas has reached the table by now and swung his leg over Hamilton’s chair and forcing Alexander to sit on the edge of it so he can settle behind him, chest-to-back. But don’t think Lafayette hasn’t noticed that Alexander hasn’t missed a beat in what he’s saying, has moved his body expertly like he expected all of this and of course he did. Lafayette is sick from the love in the air.

And it’s not just the two of them either. Lafayette has also conveniently noticed that while Washington and Laurens sitting across are all business from the waist down, an impressive game of footsie in which John is kicking George’s ass has been held below. And so of course he feels like he has to compete.

“Baby,” he whines and drops into Mulligan’s lap with the ease of the longest relationship in the room. “Why don’t you take me to France?”

“Uggg, stop being a show-off,” Hamilton tells him, “and besides, I was in the _middle_ of discussing a very _important_ financial plan for our nation, thanks.”

“Oh, n'importe quoi,” Lafayette waves away. “You’re _always_ in the middle of a financial lecture. Thomas, shut him up for me. I’m making love to my man with my eyes.” Lafayette opens his eyes wide at Mulligan and gives him a dazzling smile that Mulligan returns with his typical gruffness that Lafayette fell in love with so long ago.

“I will not be quiet,” Hamilton is saying, “about the state of our nation,” despite the fact that Thomas has now begun to kiss his neck, his ear, to play with his hair and really attempt to distract him in every way possible. But it seems that Hamilton is on a tirade, going on about banks and system and centralization and Lafayette is about to pull his shoe off just so that he can get to a sock to stick it up Hamilton’s mouth when suddenly--silence.

Lafayette looks over and sees the two of them deep in the throes of a kiss way too indecent to be had in front of their boss and--even if they are intimate--friends. But he won’t fault them for it. They look _happy_. Happy like when Mulligan asked Lafayette to move in with him. Happy like when John came to Lafayette just the other day with a letter from Washington dripping affection and care. And Lafayette is french and a sucker for love. So of course he’ll give it to the men he cares most about in his life.

He is, in fact, full to the brim with butterflies and sunshine and beautiful swirling rainbows of friendship. That is, until the kiss ends and Hamilton picks up right where he left off. “--and if we actually took a look at the new plan I’m trying to push through…”

Well, Lafayette thinks to himself. Can’t have everything.


End file.
